Don't Step on my Pointe Shoes
by sherlocked-x
Summary: AU fic wherein Sherlock and John are ballet dancers and John must deal with his confusion about Sherlock Holmes when they are pushed together to play Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in London's ballet production of the year. Rating set to change.
1. Chapter 1

John Hamish Watson prided himself of only two things: his ability to withstand the dirty, envious and most times lecherous looks from the other male dancers and his natural talent that had set him on that very stage in life. Having famous ballet dancers for parents helped him attain almost every single lead in worldwide performances, of course, yet he was far from satisfied. Many a man had commended him for his finesse and grace onstage, but none of them told him he was the best, and he despised it. He wasn't a vain and narcissistic man, neither checking his arse and the remarkable swell of his endowments in the mirror while they practiced nor steering conversations back to one topic: himself. In fact, he never wanted to advertise his talents and good looks just because he had every right to. He was practically the crowned prince of Ballet Royalty. Still, John believed himself to be ambitious, and so he was, always pushing himself to the top. However, not even his charm, charisma and the overall cuddly aura that his Hobbitness exuded could match the seductive, enthralling, mind-numbing characteristics of his greatest rival. God, how he hated the man! Hated the way those high cheekbones caught in the light; those dusky gray eyes seeming to envelope your very existence into its midst; the taut, lean and sinewy muscles that flexed at all the right times; even the ripe curve of the man's luscious backside and his bulging front! (John was _not_ gay!) He hated it all with a passion he had always showed for things that barricaded his way to glory. No matter how goddamned attractive the man was, his arse had shoved itself right in the way of John's rising path to being the very best, and hell would sooner freeze over before John would give up his ambitions to take a move on with his surprisingly empty love life. The stage was a bloody battlefield, their Pointe shoes and body fitting leotards the readily available weapons. Love had no place in that world.

"John, dear, time for tea!" a voice called out, jerking the man out of his thoughts.

He took a moment to gather his bearings before he joined his parents in the sitting room for their afternoon tea. He noted with satisfaction that they were alone. The past few days had been exhausting, to say the least, family friends and business partners dropping by to talk about his future. John had almost felt the need to snap and run away from home, book a hotel not far from this place. But he had not done any of the sort. Instead, he stayed and endured the many visits no matter how dull and irritating they were.

"None of the usual crowd, then?" he asked, taking a seat across his parents and picking up his teacup, making careful work of dropping two sugars and one spoon of cream in the brew.

Then, he picked up the cup and inhaled the scent, a languid smile easing its way onto his features. As if on cue, his words jinxed the afternoon and the annoying sound of the doorbell reached his ears and he cursed lightly, sighing and taking a huge gulp of his tea before his short-lived peace and quiet was shattered.

"Oh, you know this guy. He works in the ballet industry and is, as people tell me, your biggest rival," his mother said with a smile, rising up of the loveseat she shared with his father to greet their guest.

John groaned quietly and pressed his thumbs to his temple. He could feel a migraine coming, and he was in no place to quietly slam his head on the wall in exasperation and a craving for release.

"You'll thank me someday, son," his mother admonished, giving him a look that plainly said "Behave."

Stuck in the parlour with no chance to escape, he gave himself over to the mercy of his parents, willing the ground to open up and swallow him. The footsteps outside the room quickened, and the door swung open to reveal their guest: Sherlock Holmes. The man was clothed smartly, dressed in a suit that hugged him in all the right places. His shirt buttons looked ready to pop off, as if they were painted on his body, and his trousers hugged his long legs and showed off his arse. It looked so pert and lush that John just wanted to reach out and squeeze it, feeling the man's flesh under his hands. _God, what was he thinking? He wasn't gay!_

"Hello, Dr. and Mrs. Watson," Sherlock greeted in his low baritone, his voice sending a chill down John's spine. "John," he added, reaching out a hand to shake the man in address, clasping it firmly in his own and smiling as he took a seat.

John was left befuddled as the warmth of Sherlock's hand left his, and he stared at the offending organ for a moment before noticing that their guest had comfortably placed himself beside him.

"Tea?" he offered weakly, giving a light smile to the man beside him.

"Black, please," he was answered, an amused look playing on Sherlock's sharp angled face. Their fingers brushed again at the contact as John handed him the cup of tea, an electric current sending tingles along his arm at the brief touch.

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Watson. Dr. Watson," Sherlock spoke, smiling at his hosts.

"Oh, call me Victoria," John's mother replied, flashing her guest a wide smile. "Ted," her husband added, an arm casually around his wife's middle. The conversation carried on, John missing parts and catching only little bits and pieces as his brain slowed down, still trying to wrap itself around the fact that his man was _here_, in his sitting room, mere inches away from him.

"So what brings you to Cambridge, Sherlock?" came Ted's question, cocking his head in curiosity as things got comfortable between them.

"I'm actually here for business," the man admitted, and John leaned in, paying close attention now. "Gregory Lestrade will be staging a one-of-a-kind performance, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and I'm desperate for one of the lead roles," he flushed a little at the admission.

At this, John spoke up. "I'm gonna try out for this as well, then. It sounds promising, especially since Gregory Lestrade's the man behind it. I hope you don't mind a little competition, Sherlock."

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" Victoria gushed, clasping her hands together, her eyes glinting with excitement. "God knows we haven't had enough performances that are worth the tickets, these days." Ted clucked his tongue in agreement, earning a _look _from his wife that he ignored.

"Indeed. We keep getting reruns or restages of Swan Lake, Nutcracker, The Twelve Dancing Princesses!" he waved a hand to convey his example, photos of the aforementioned lined up on the walls. "They are putting more emphasis on the performances that bode well with women; dainty and charming. It's good to finally have a change. Men _are_ just as proficient at ballet, as well as women are," he added.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, placing his empty teacup on the table. "Yes, yes. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde will be quite the performance. I expect hordes of people will be flocking to the theatre to see it once the casting and the rehearsals are over," he turned to John and finished with a smirk. "Oh, not at all. Besides, it will be worth every effort if we get to work with each other. I've heard so many things about you, John Watson."

Cheeks heating up at the look Sherlock sent his way, he cleared his throat and chuckled quietly. "I look forward to the possibility of this arrangement!"

The conversation took a new turn, and once again, John allowed himself to be deaf to whatever was going on around him, sneaking only a few casual glances at the man beside him. His muscles rippled through his shirt every time he would move, and it looked right about ready to rip open when he would lean forward, making John catch his breath in his throat. Oddly, he found himself drawn to the man's hands. Every teasing stroke over his trousers, from his knee to the juncture of his thigh where muscle met arse, sent a shiver of pleasure down John's spine. The move itself, though subconsciously done, looked like sex. Oh, if he were a glove upon that hand! He sat there, transfixed and mystified, hoping to some higher power that his mouth wasn't hanging open.

"I really must be going. It's getting quite late, and I have a meeting to catch," Sherlock said wryly, standing up and smoothing his palms over his trousers, seeming ignorant to the eyes that tracked his hands.

"A pity, my dear," Victoria lamented, looking put-upon at the idea of their guest leaving. "You must join us for dinner!"

These words jolted John back to his senses, and he cast a look of such bewilderment upon his parents. They had never issued an invitation to dinner, before, and were usually glad to be rid of their afternoon tea guests. "I'm afraid I must decline, Victoria. My friends will serve my head on a silver platter if I miss our little gathering," the man answered, a fond smile on his face.

"Perhaps some other time, if the invitation still stands?" he added, shaking her hand as well as Ted's.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. You're always welcome in our home."

John stood up as well and escorted the man to the door before shaking his hand in farewell. "It was a pleasure to meet you at last, Sherlock," he said, hand on the doorknob as he opened it for their guest.

"It was more mine than yours," came the answer, and with a parting smile, the man departed, hailing a cab and speeding off in the moment it took John to close the door and shake his head in shock and amazement.

* * *

The next few days came and went without much hassle, few guests had come by for tea, and John had managed to escape most of them in an excuse to practice his dancing. His parents, as ballet dancers themselves, were very supportive and encouraged him to spend his hours in the studio to prepare for the auditions in the coming fortnight. This was John's chance to finally prove to the world how much better he was than ruddy Sherlock Holmes. He was born with the talent, for crying out loud! The man was merely... someone he didn't know at all. Stumped with this realization, John devoted his time to researching what he could about Sherlock. He made himself believe that the only reason he was running a search on the man was because he couldn't very well take on him without knowing his dirty little secrets, yet the small nagging voice behind his head wouldn't shut up and kept telling him he was stalking Sherlock for all the wrong reasons. _Stalking, really. The gall!_

* * *

"Next. John Watson." The man in address looked up to find a woman barely his age beckon to him with one finger, a sign that his turn had come. Before he followed, he looked around the hall, eyes tracking down a dark mop of curly hair, yet he saw nothing of the sort and went in the room, a small twinge of disappointment growing in his heart. "I'll be performing a solo from Swan Lake," John said, eyeing the judges with a sharp eye as he put his bag down and gave the sheet music to the on-call pianist. He moved with the gracefulness of a cat, his moves precise and sharp. The notes of the piece flowed through his body like he had practiced, and when the rhythm rose higher and higher, he danced with more feeling, portraying the throbbing tension of the song in the movement of his arms and feet, doing pirouettes and gliding across the floor. When the last chord struck, John landed with a loud "thud" in time with it, pleased that his audiences' surprise was etched clearly on their faces.

"It says here that you're auditioning for both roles," one of the judges – a woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail – spoke first.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, a flush staining his cheeks as he kept his breathing under check.

"We will contact you when the auditions are over," he was told, before he gave a bow, took his bag and left. The amount of dancers lining the hallway looked at him in recognition, and a few others even requested a photo. Surprisingly or maybe _un_surprisingly, he was the only one who went without a costume. Most sported the Dr. Jekyll attire of black leotards with a strike of white; others went as Mr. Hyde, complete with make-up in their dark green attire. And yet, try as he might, his eyes never fell upon Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"I got the role!" he crowed triumphantly, putting down the telephone and bursting into the library where his parents sat, clearly not disturbed with whatever cacophony John had planned to make.

"Congratulations, dear, but what makes this any different from all the other lead roles you got?" Victoria was the first to answer, lowering her book to look at her son as he practically _thrummed_ with suppressed glee.

"Well, mother, if Sherlock Holmes didn't get the other lead, then it will secure me a place _above_ him, and if he _did_, get the part, well, it will be a joy to work with the man," he said, rubbing his hands together.

"I'm quite certain he got the other lead, John," Ted replied with amusement. "He is a very fine lad with lots of talent. I now see the reason why you're always hell bent on pushing yourself harder."

His son snorted at this statement. "We're in for a circus ride, then, father."

Ted merely smirked. "Shall we go out for dinner, then? I think John would like a celebration for his latest conquest."

"Really, Ted. You're as bad your son," Victoria admonished, rolling her eyes fondly at her husband. "I can still remember when you took me and Frederick Holmes to the 'local pub' to celebrate your success at auditioning for The Invisible Man." The man in address blushed right to his ears, and hid behind his newspaper.

"Wait. _Holmes_?" John uttered in surprise. "Frederick was a _Holmes?"_ he asked.

He had heard stories about his father's college friend and business partner, Frederick, a couple of times, his parents had even left him at the house while they went on his funeral, but this was something new.

"Why, yes, John. He is Sherlock's father," Victoria replied, frowning lightly. "He wasn't a dancer, but oh, was he fond of the arts. He never missed a show!"

This made John's eyes go wide. He _knew _that Sherlock's father was named Frederick, but it had never occurred to him to make the connection. This explained the comfort with which his parents had conducted around the man. They were closer than he thought they were, after all.

* * *

A loud creaking sound announced John's arrival to the rehearsal rooms, and everyone greeted him warmly, shaking his hand.

"John Watson? Follow me," a man in his late thirties said, guiding him to where Gregory Lestrade sat with some of the producers.

"Good day, sir," he greeted, clasping the man's hand in their introduction.

"John, eh? Good to see you. The panel passed on words of appreciation about you. I don't doubt they made the right choice at all." The compliment pleased John, and he flashed a smile at Lestrade.

"That's something to live up to, sir," he answered.

"Psh. Enough with that nonsense. Call me Greg. We'll be working together for many months, I believe. London will have the time of its life once we put you on that stage with your partner."

"Who is he, may I ask?" John said, raising his brows as he looked around for a sign of his co-lead.

"Here I am. I believe I'm to play your alter ego, John Watson. You _are_ the better half, however, or so they say."

He whipped his head to the sound of the voice and saw the familiar mass of curly hair that adorned the high cheekbones and the face of a cherub. Greg's chuckle sounded distant beside him as he took in his partner's casual attire. The man was dressed to shag, in every sense of the word! He wore his usual trousers and coat, yet his shirt of choice left almost nothing to the imagination. It was a shameless white body hugger that emphasized the man's chest, his pert nipples shaped quite clearly. If John was gay, he would have jumped on that body and ravished it to the edge of its owner's life. But he wasn't _gay, _for the Queen Mother's sake!

"Ah. Lucky for me, then, hm," John responded as soon as his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth. "Imagine, working with Sherlock Holmes _and _Gregory Lestrade! People would kill to be in my position right now." Both men chuckled at his statement.

"More so for me, I believe, gentlemen. To work with you both is every producer's dream. Too bad they didn't make one of you female, or you'd have dozens of us knocking down your doors to get you on our productions," Greg replied, clapping a hand on their backs.

"How you flatter us, Greg," Sherlock deadpanned, "Imagine, one of us feminine!" John had to disguise his laughter into a hesitant cough.

"That would be you, Sherlock. You surpass the qualities of a woman with your physique and your wit." The glare sent his way and the laughter of Greg was enough to plaster a smirk on his face.

"Do grow up," Sherlock had growled before stalking away, muttering about more coffee and immature co-workers.

"Don't let him get to you," Greg had said, before leaving him to his own devices. "Briefing is in 30 minutes. Try not to get too lost around here, John."

Then he had disappeared into one of the rooms, presumably to meet with some of the important members of the crew. It left John to hunt down his PA, who said that she would meet him there. A loud ring alerted him to a call, and he flipped the gadget open, pressing it to his ear.

"Hello, brother. Miss me yet?" He rolled his eyes as the voice of his sister, Harry (short for Harriet), came on the line.

"Not quite," he answered. "Where the hell are you?"

A soft chuckle answered his question, and he frowned automatically, not liking the sound of it one bit. "I'm picking up your jam, sweetheart. I'll be there in five." Somehow, he found himself looking forward to Harry's arrival.

"Hurry up, or I won't leave coffee for you. Sherlock's all over the machine already. Who knows how much longer till he drains the supply." He could almost hear his sister's smirk over the phone.

"Sherlock, huh." It was gone as quickly as he had thought it would. "Interesting. See you!" With a click, the line went dead, and John didn't bother holding back a roll of his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock?"

The man in question gave a noncommittal grunt as he took a huge gulp of coffee. It had been his fourth as far as John had noticed, and he was more than a bit concerned for the welfare of his co-worker. Purely for the good of the production, of course. Too much caffeine was never nice.

"You might want to slow down on your intake," he advised, brows meeting together on his forehead in a frown.

"Oh, don't you worry, John, there's still enough for you," Sherlock replied, putting his cup down and wiping the coffee moustache with a handkerchief. John found himself staring at the heart-shaped lips, and began imagining how it would feel to press his thumb against the plump, rosy flesh. They were parted slightly, and a pink tongue darted out to wet it. He cleared his throat and looked away forcefully, refusing to meet the other man's eyes.

"Well, yeah. Okay. Greg sent me to get you." He reached out to grab a cup from the nearby stand and filled it with coffee, suddenly having the need for caffeine.

"Shall we, then, partner?" Sherlock asked him in mild amusement as John drained his cup and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. With a grunt, John shot the man a _look_ and gestured for him to take the lead. Working with Sherlock Holmes would be a real roller coaster, he could tell. The man was _insane_!

As they made their way towards the conference room where Greg and the choreographer were waiting, they attracted the stares of several of the crew. John had to hide a satisfied smirk as more people smiled his way than at Sherlock's. He knew the man exuded an aura of sexual prowess, yet he was the more approachable type. He had the charm and charisma between the two of them, and he wielded it to his advantage more often than naught.

"Gentlemen, glad you could join us," Greg said, gesturing his hand at the seats across him and his companion as they entered the room. Sherlock took his first, right across who he supposed was the choreographer, and John sat beside him.

"Your sarcasm is not wasted, Greg." Sherlock retorted, scoffing in that increasingly familiar way of his. John chuckled at this and was met with a bland look by the producer. He merely smirked, raising a defiant brow.

"This is Steven Stark, head choreographer." The man beside Greg grinned and gave them a two-finger salute.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock and John. I've heard a lot of things about you both, particularly about how nasty Sherlock here can get when his partner is a total arse. Thankfully though, we've got you, John. You'll set this one to rights before I have to ban him from the stage for a couple of days."

"He'll cope, I'm sure." Greg hastily intervened before Sherlock could get a word across. This silenced the lanky man, though it didn't stop him from glowering.

"I look forward to rehearsing with you, Steven." John said, a smile on his features. He already liked the guy. Obviously, he knew about Sherlock's tendencies to be a little, shall we say, temperamental, and it practically ensured his sure way to proving that he was better in all fields.

"I saw Swan Lake last month. Congratulations to a flawless performance! I knew the Watsons had it in their blood to be constantly perfect."

John's face broke out into huge grin, and Sherlock only glowered more, upset that he had been left out of the conversation. It wasn't fair for their choreographer to automatically pick John out as his favourite between them. Things simply did _not_ and should _not_ work that way!

Greg, attempting to do some damage control, coughed lightly. "Alright, time to go back to business."

This shut Steven and John up, and lifted the dark cloud that was over Sherlock's head. Greg sighed mentally, wondering what he had done to be working with the two best and most exasperating dancers in Europe. He felt like he was dealing with five-year olds, and this wasn't what he had signed up for.

"Though the casting was done here in Cambridge, I'm afraid we have to move back to London for the rehearsals. The stage is ready, the dressing rooms are being prepared, and we have 8 weeks to get ready for our first performance. The rest of the cast are already in London as I had purposefully left out the lead roles for last. You may rent a flat while we stay there, for the trip from Cambridge to London takes quite a long time even by car."

Sherlock merely shrugged. This wasn't news to him, after all. He had deduced right from the very beginning that Gregory Lestrade was visiting his grandmother in Cambridge, thus holding the auditions there instead of London. Anyone who was interested would do _anything_ to be able to audition, anyway. It wasn't a problem for the producer.

John's reaction was all sorts of different. He had thought that as the casting was done in Cambridge, they would rehearse and perform there as well. Clearly, he hadn't anticipated this turn of events. He had never stayed in London for a long period of time, as his performances had been based hugely in Cambridge and the nearby cities. As he turned to look at Sherlock, he finally realized what made the man better than him in ballet. He was independent, living on his own and performing wherever and whatever he pleased. There seemed to be nothing holding him back. Not one to turn down a challenge, John nodded pensively at Lestrade. Of course, there was the matter of finding a flat, but he knew Harry could take care of it for him. His sister would mind _very much_ if he took to living in a rundown place where she would have to visit daily.

"It doesn't seem to be a problem." Greg remarked, pleased that there was no argument about this. He didn't think his brain would want the remarkable strain if his two lead dancers refused to rehearse in London.

"Of course it isn't. Don't be daft, Greg. London is a wonderful place. We would be fools to turn down the opportunity to perform there." Sherlock replied, his words sending a 'BORING!' right into the air. John could only agree, still lost in his thoughts about their soon-to-be living arrangements.

"Let us proceed to other matters, then." Greg continued, seeming undaunted despite Sherlock's retorts. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is not a production that highlights love and any romantic themes. It is dark and is appropriate for Halloween – which is when we will stage our Opening Night. The dances will be a mixture of complicated and simple movements, and you have to put your _best_ foot forward. I know this will be your first time to perform with a male lead, but my assumptions go as far as to assure myself that everything will go smoothly. Do I have your assent?"

He was answered with nods, including Steven's thoughtful one, and he spoke again. "Steven and I, as well as the rest of the crew, will move to London tomorrow. I expect you to be there a day after we arrive. Please don't make it hard for all of us."

Greg pulled out his business card and slid it towards the two men. "Save my number. And if anything goes wrong, call me. Or _I _just might be the one to call you if _you_ do anything wrong."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded cattily. "Yes, Father. Will you and Mother Steven here require more of us or are we excused?"

John couldn't believe his ears and had to bite his tongue from bursting into laughter as both Greg and Steven turned red, their ears sticking out of their heads as they glared at Sherlock. The other man merely smirked, fishing his phone out of his pocket and keying in Greg's number.

"You may go, smart arse." Greg muttered, glaring at both of them, and John's face grew warm as he did his best not to laugh at the man. He high-tailed it out of the room with Sherlock, and gave in to laughter as soon as the door closed. Sherlock paused with him, and they soon evidence of their humor could be heard all the way down the hall.

* * *

"Do you have a place to stay in London?" Sherlock asked as he and John walked across the place, looking as the crew packed boxes for easy transfer.

"No, not really. I was hoping to share a flat with somebody, but come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" John replied, and he frowned at his companion as he stopped so suddenly.

"Oh, I don't know. Why don't you try asking your alter ego?"

John scoffed at that, shaking his head at the other man. "Stop joking, Sherlock. We both know that's not gonna happen."

A raised brow met him at this, and the man leaned on one of the walls, his head cocked to one side. "I hope you like the violin. It helps me think. And I'm not exactly the type of guy women fawn over – not that they interest me at any rate – so you should be safe from me bringing home girls to fuck."

"You're serious about this. Really." John said, looking at Sherlock with an astonished expression. A wordless 'DUH' hung in the air, and John shook his head, grinning at the other man. "This arrangement might eventually end up with me dead, but what the hell? I accept."

They resumed walking, both silent this time, and John mused over what Sherlock had told him. "So, you're not into girls," he started. "No," was the clipped answer. "Do you have a boyfriend? Cause I— er—" he stuttered, blushing. "I'm not propositioning you," he explained at the raised eyebrow. "I'm just curious, is all." Sherlock snorted and pierced John with a look that would have anybody's legs turn to jelly. "I consider myself married to my work."

"Good, that's... good." John managed to say before his sister appeared in front of them, bringing two cups of coffee. What a life saver! "Harry! Oh my God, thank you. Finally. It took you a long time to arrive," Aware that he was babbling and was now subject to two highly amused stares, he took his cup and drank from it, hiding his face.

"I heard you were transferring to London for this project," Harry began, raising a brow. "And this Sherlock fellow you've been talking about for months, tells me you're going to be living in the flat together. Shall I expect a happy announcement by the end of the month?"

By the time Harry finished talking, John's face was the same colour as Greg's was, red and flushed. Sherlock stood beside him, amused at John's discomfort. "We _shall_ be flatmates, Harry, for as long as I am needed in London, and we will split the costs of the flat. But that doesn't mean we're a couple or I'm sexually interested in him. We've barely even known each other!"

"There's no need to be shy, John. Mother and Father know you'll eventually swing the other way. You've remained single for a long time now."

"Oh shut up, Harry."

* * *

"_The address is 221B Baker Street. I'll see you there."_

The words replayed over and over again in John's mind, Sherlock's unmistakable drawl flooding his thoughts with inappropriate images that he seriously contemplated banging his head forcefully on the wall just to get rid of it. He wasn't gay, he wouldn't be gay for his co-worker, and there was absolutely no possibility of him having the hots for Sherlock Holmes.

"How was the briefing, dear?" Victoria asked, greeting him in the hallway as he hung his coat.

"It was fine. I'm moving to London for it. Perhaps Harry's already told you about my living arrangements, Mother," he replied, giving the woman a kiss on the cheek.

"Yes, she has, in fact, called me and your father while you were busy. How was Gregory Lestrade? I recall meeting him in one of your productions, but we were never properly introduced."

John grinned as he remembered Greg's red face, and patted his mother's arm gently. "He's brilliant. I expect Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to be a hit. He and Steven Stark are working together, and Sherlock seems to have the need to bait them frequently. It'll be fun, mother. I tell you."

"That's good to know! When will you be heading to London? I can have the car take you, but you can't use it there," she replied, giving her son a calculated look to make sure he was listening. "So don't even try holding it ransom, John Watson."

Memories of when he had once blackmailed their chauffeur into not returning the car surfaced, and he flushed a little, shaking his head in unconcealed amusement. "Never again, mother. I've seen Father when he's angry, and I most definitely do _not_ want to see it for a second time." Victoria smiled a little at this, an 'Oh John' look spreading on her face. "I'm leaving tomorrow, since Greg and the others will go today. He wants us right behind them so we can prepare as soon as possible."

"Alright, I'll prepare a batch of cookies for you and Sherlock. Ted had some money transferred to your account earlier to help with the moving."

* * *

Just as soon as John had stepped onto the curb in front of 221B, Sherlock came striding into view, scarf wrapped around his long, pale neck, coat flapping against the wind. He raised a brow at the man's impeccable timing and shook his hand briefly when they reached the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, rapping the brass knocker as they waited for the landlady to open it.

"This looks like a prime spot. Must be expensive," John murmured, looking at his companion.

"I know Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. It's gonna be a special deal. She owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"So you stopped the husband from being executed." This earned a tight smile from Sherlock.

"Oh no, I ensured it." The man answered, looking at the confused reaction of John. At that exact moment, the door opened, and a cheerful old lady greeted them at the door, ushering them in.

"Sherlock," she said fondly, wrapping the man in a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, John Watson." Sherlock waved to John in introduction, and he shook the landlady's hand, feeling like he was meeting his mother's twin. He followed Sherlock through the steps and into the flat, looking around in appreciation. It was a mess, sure, but he could live with that once they straightened out Sherlock's things and added his own.

"What do you think, Mr. Watson? There's an extra bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two," Mrs. Hudson said, hands clasped in front of her.

"Of course we'll be needing two." John frowned, wondering why the woman thought he was in a sexual relationship with Sherlock.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner, next door, got married once," she explained, seeming undaunted by his disagreeing frown. "Would you like a cup of tea? Just this once, mind you. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear," she admonished, bustling into the kitchen.

John could only nod, and giving up, took his seat on a comfortable-looking seat that had a pillow bearing the map of England resting on it. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, his shirt left unbuttoned at the first two buttons, showing a hint of skin to John's eyes. Sighing, he lifted his feet and rested them on the coffee table, watching as the chauffeur placed his things inside the flat.

"I just remember I've brought cookies. Mother made us a batch last night. And jam. There's jam." John muttered, as the chauffeur gave him the tin can and the bottle of strawberry jam. He removed his feet from the table and brushed off the dirt before setting the cookies and the jam there. Sherlock lazily reached for the tin can before Mrs. Hudson came into the room and gave him a _look_ that plainly said "Get up." Pouting lightly, the man sat up and accepted his tea without a word, waiting for John to open the can.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John said, inhaling the scent of the brew, his eyes closed. Then, taking a sip, he set it back down on the table, opening the tin can and passing it to Sherlock who looked ready to consume the entire can. "Save some for later, Sherlock," he said, raising a brow pointedly as the man took a handful. Sighing as if put out, Sherlock put some of the cookies back and munched thoughtfully on the one piece he had left in his hand.

"Victoria _does _make a baker insecure by the way she makes her delicacies. Are you sure you aren't sister, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, making the woman blush.

"Oh Sherlock, stop flattering me. We both know I won't bake for you unless you ask politely. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper," she reminded them both again before opening the door. "I'm downstairs if you need anything."

John finished his tea first and gathered his suitcases to unpack, leaving Sherlock alone. He was satisfied with the room he had for his own, the window looking directly at the busy streets of London. The sun had set, and darkness had fallen over the city. John had to admire the flicker of the lights as establishments turned theirs on. Cambridge was too different from this place, and for some reason – and he was quite sure the reason was not the man eating the cookies he had left downstairs – he wasn't looking forward to going back.

A sudden ring from his pocket interrupted his thoughts, and he fished it out, holding it to his ear as he answered. "John Watson."

"Hello, Mr. Watson," an unfamiliar voice spoke at the other end of the line. "Can you see the camera right across the street?" John strained his eyes and saw the CCTV camera trained at him. "Yes, I ca-."

"And do you see the one below the lamp in the corner of the street?" the caller asked again. This time, he saw it quickly, and he spoke in a harsh tone. "Who is this?"

"Name your price, Mr. Watson. I can pay you any amount," the voice answered in an amused tone. "I ask of only one thing from you."

"In exchange for what?" John asked incredulously, wondering why he was being offered money.

"Information," the man on the line said. "Nothing indiscrete. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to." Even an idiot would know he meant Sherlock Holmes.

"Why?" John asked again, his hand tightening around his phone.

"I worry about him. Constantly," came the answer. "But I would prefer that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call... a difficult relationship. I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what might that be?" John feels compelled to end the call, if only to stop the weirdness of their conversation, but he doesn't, just to hear the man's answer to his question.

"An enemy. In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say archenemy. He does love to be dramatic." A sigh accompanied the words, and this time, John pressed the end button, dropping his phone on the floor. If every living second of being Sherlock's flatmate would be as theatric as that call, it would be the longest eight weeks of his life.

* * *

**a/n: So I know I took some dialogues out from A Study in Pink, but this is still not mine, okay. And the story won't go so far as them going out and solving crimes. This is AU. :D **


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